Draconis stood in the parking lot outside the arena, rolling his shoulders to loosen the tension that had lived there for months. This was it — one tryout, one chance to prove his magic belonged in a real ring. He'd pitched himself to a dozen bookers who looked at him like he was selling snake oil. Tonight would be different. It had to be. But when he stepped through the tunnel into the arena itself, the structure opened up into something impossible. Tiers of seating rose endlessly in every direction, rows upon rows spiraling upward until they vanished into distant light. The crowd noise echoed from a thousand directions at once. A booker with slicked hair grabbed a microphone at ringside and pointed at Draconis. "Ladies and gentlemen, this lizard thinks he's got real magic!" Laughter rolled through the infinite seats like thunder. The booker grinned. "Let's see if his little tricks work when the bell rings." Draconis felt the familiar exhaustion settle into his chest — not surprise, just confirmation. They'd already decided what he was before he'd done anything. He stepped toward the ring anyway, because this was still his one shot, and he'd come too far to walk away from mockery. He lifted the staff from where it hung across his back. The emerald at its crown pulsed once, twice, then flared with green light that washed across the lower seats. The booker's grin faltered. Draconis planted the base against the floor and spoke a single word in the old language. The staff answered. Light coiled up the intricate patterns carved into its length, bright enough that the crowd noise shifted from laughter to something uncertain. The booker lowered his microphone. Draconis didn't smile or gloat. He just walked to the ring apron and waited. They could mock him all they wanted, but now they had to watch what came next.

Draconis looked at the ornate X on the floor and made a choice. He walked to the ring apron, set his staff against the corner post, and pulled the crew's toolbox toward him with one clawed hand. The crew chief tensed. "What are you doing?" Draconis opened the box and lifted out a roll of red and yellow striped tape. "Preparing the ring myself. You want proof I can control it? Watch." He climbed through the ropes and began checking the turnbuckles one by one, tightening bolts with his hands instead of magic. The crew watched in silence as he tested each rope for tension, reinforced the corners, and marked problem spots with the caution tape. No emerald glow. No sorcery. Just work. The crew chief crossed the golden X and approached the apron. He didn't climb in, but he picked up a second toolbox and slid it under the bottom rope. "Top left turnbuckle needs shimming," he said. Draconis nodded and made the adjustment. Another crew member stepped forward with a wrench. Then another with fresh tape. They didn't enter the ring, but they stopped retreating. The booker's voice crackled over the sound system. "Ring crew, you've got five minutes or the tryout's canceled." The chief looked at Draconis, then at his team. "We work from outside the ropes. He works inside. Anyone who's not comfortable with that can leave." Nobody left. Five minutes later the ring was ready. Draconis stood in the center while the crew gathered their tools from the apron. The chief paused at the golden X, still marking the spot where they'd drawn their line, and looked up at him. "You earn trust in inches, not miracles," he said. Draconis felt something shift in his chest — not the weight lifting, but the shape of it changing. He'd spent years trying to prove his magic was real. Tonight he'd proven he could work without it when it mattered. The bell rang. His opponent's music hit. Draconis picked up his staff, and this time when the emerald flared, the crew didn't flinch. They just watched.